I looked at the purple tracks on my kitchen floor and said, “What?” It looked like some crazed critter had danced in blackberries. That would be me: Kira-dog was outside. There were blotches, splotches, and smears on the wood floor I’d swept ten minutes before. Even the braided rug in front of the sink had purple on it. I put my empty smoothie glass down on the counter; there were blackberries in my breakfast drink.
I lifted one foot. A bit of purple, but this wasn’t the culprit. The next foot, ah yes, there was a blackberry, still attached.
Oh, man. I didn’t want to spend time cleaning, I was going to write. I’d been in pain for months and it takes extra oomph for a person to write in that state. According to my doctor, a curve in my spine had pushed me over into a good imitation of the leaning tower of Pisa. All kinds of stuff got out of whack. However, physiotherapy, exercises, and shoe lifts were straightening me up, gradually. That hurt too. However, I was singing hard to myself a tuneful optimistic soundtrack, as in Sound of Music, “Climb Every Mountain,” not quite as cheesy but definitely bright colours and high-value lighting.
I too could look after the house, my huge garden, hike with the dog, and summon up enough energy to work on a few magicmonday posts. This morning, I needed to get a post cued with photos as it was due to go out as an email at 9:30 a.m. the following day
No more excuses, just write. I had a deadline. Uh-huh. And a blackberry mess.
I took off my sandals and cleaned them. Put them outside on the deck to dry. It was going to be a hot day so the dog and I had walked early.
Found a rag, and wiped the floor.
I shook off the braided rug outside, then threw it in the washing machine. I had no idea how one lone blackberry had managed to slide onto the floor instead of into the blender, but wow, what an amount of havoc I’d managed to create.
I would still write.
So how was it after all that I managed to find myself sweeping the bottom of my hanging cupboard?
Even though I was headed straight to put my fingers to the keyboard, I had swerved. If there was conscious thought involved, I couldn’t tell you what it was. Maybe I wanted to admire how empty the cupboard looked as I’d just schlepped three duffle bags, one rolling suitcase and a small air purifier down to the crawl space. The cupboard was, however, not as pristine and echoing as I’d expected. On the floor of the cupboard, I keep bags intended for the thrift store and books for my local free library. Underneath everything, I uncovered a stash of three pretty cloth bags, all gifts, which had been lost for months. I hung them up as a visual reminder.
But wait, lurking on the floor, what was this? A disgusting old bag of Air Canada face masks, my missing bottle of curl enhancer, a black N95 mask, and a Ziplock bag of assorted teas, miso soup, chocolate, and applesauce, intended to stave off starvation when travelling. Well, it would be foolish to just leave everything there. Then I swept because by then the bottom of the cupboard was empty and dust bunnies had been breeding in the corners. I came to full consciousness at that point, astonished by the cleaning vortex I’d allowed myself to get sucked into.
The writing was still due. I should . . .
With the cupboard floor clean, I slipped the N95 onto a kitchen shelf where I keep masks in case a sudden need strikes when I’m packing for a town trip. I seldom take them now, but old habits die hard. Only by then I was getting tired or careless or annoyed—I still wasn’t writing, Arrgh!—and a glass canning jar filled with xanthan gum teetered, then fell out of the cupboard and shattered on the floor. If you’re not familiar with this substance, it’s white and the consistency of corn starch. It pouffs.
I wish I was making this up.
I stood there and looked at the mess in my tile entryway and thought, What did my mom teach me about cleaning up glass? She could be very volatile, but when it came to breakages with sharp edges, a calm descended. I smiled, thinking of her. It had been decades since her death, but I still missed my mother. And I could use some calm.
Shoes first. I retrieved my sandals from the deck via the far door so I wouldn’t have to pick my way through the glass. I grabbed a pair of gardening gloves from the table outside. Kira wanted a pat and to come inside with me. How about give me a moment, I suggested. I don’t want your paws cut. But I did stop to give her a face rub before I went back inside and found a newspaper to place the big chunks of glass in. After that, I could vacuum. As glass tends to, it throws shards further than you’d think; I could tell from the rattle and clatter as I vacuumed the hall rug.
When I thought of it, the whole morning was funny in a kneebone-connected-to-the-thighbone kind of way, or it would be if I wasn’t so grumpy because I hadn’t written. Two days later when I was telling the story, surely my string of mishaps would seem downright hilarious. That’s what I’d write about, starting with the blackberries.
Later in the afternoon, my sister, the writer Marjorie Simmins, called. I told her what had happened. “But that was an ‘I’ll do anything but write’ excuse,” she said when we chatted. “Right? As in, ‘Wait, I’ll clean up my desk first. I know, I’ll scrub the toilet, that’s what I need to do before I write!’”
“No,” I told her. “Not this time. I wish. Though you’re right that procrastination about writing is the only way I ever get my desk clean.” Then I thought about the sudden veer into my cupboard and laughed. “Well, most of it just happened today, except for cleaning the bottom of my cupboard. That blindsided me, it was right up there with your deke about scrubbing the toilet.”
This story did get written then, though it was too rough to send out. As for the blackberries, I’ve used them up making jam for gifts. No more dancing with them!
Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, friends!
How do you find yourself procrastinating? It could be to avoid writing or anything in your life. I actually really enjoy writing so it always surprises me that I do crazy things to avoid it.